


The Lover to Your Nightmare

by Atisenia



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Accidental Self-Harm, Horror, M/M, Mystery, Romance, Tumblr: letswritesherlock
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-10-31
Updated: 2013-10-31
Packaged: 2017-12-31 01:59:55
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,268
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1025956
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Atisenia/pseuds/Atisenia
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There's something Sherlock isn't telling him. Something important. John thinks it may be dangerous.</p><p>He's right.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Lover to Your Nightmare

**Author's Note:**

> Written for Challenge 6 of [Let's Write Sherlock](http://letswritesherlock.tumblr.com)  
> I really cut it close with this fic, even though I've been working on it for quite some time and did my research. I'm not sure it conveys all the right feelings, but I tried.  
> Not a native speaker, so if you see any mistakes, let me know and I'll fix them.

Something made John Watson wake up in the middle of the night and this time, it wasn’t a nightmare. He felt a foreign presence in his room, someone watching him from within the shadows. John kept his eyes tightly shut and his ears on alert for any unusual sound while he still pretended to be asleep. His pulse quickened with a surge of adrenaline even as he tried to keep his breathing even. The silence stretched over him, attacking his ears with constant ringing and a need to look over his shoulder.

He gritted his teeth and opened his eyes just a tiny bit. He saw nothing but the dark corners of his room, lit only by a dim light of the moon. The back of John’s neck started tingling.

He turned slowly onto his back, his heartbeat a deafening sound echoing in the quiet room. He reached under his pillow for his gun but didn’t find it there. He swallowed a string of curses that threatened to come out of his mouth and get him killed.

John slowly cracked one eye open and looked to the side of the bed. His heart stopped and then performed a wild dance when he saw a dark silhouette blocking the light.

But John knew that shadow.

“Sherlock?” he asked, relief washing over him along with irritation.

Sherlock didn’t react, just mumbled something John couldn’t catch. He continued staring at John with a focus that was entirely too terrifying for half two in the morning.

John sighed and sat up on the bed, rubbing at his sore eyes. He was too tired to be annoyed, his own trips downstairs to make sure Sherlock was really there, alive, still fresh in his memory.

“I’m here,” he said gently, quietly, his hand hovering over Sherlock’s arm but never quite touching. “I’m safe. We’re safe.” He lay down again, exhausted. “Go back to sleep,” he whispered, not sure if Sherlock would listen to him.

He did.

 

***

 

Every bone and muscle in John’s body ached. After three solid days of chasing criminals and minimal rest, John would gladly sleep for a week. Yet Sherlock kept talking at him, trying to find a way to John’s brain through the thick fog that surrounded it, closing at him, putting weight on his eyelids...

“John!” He jumped when Sherlock shook his shoulder. “If you fall asleep on the floor, I will leave you there.”

John groaned and stifled a yawn.

“Then stop talking and let me go to bed,” he said.

Sherlock shot him an annoyed look.

“No one’s keeping you hostage,” Sherlock said.

“That’s debatable,” John murmured rubbing at his eyes. He sighed and let his shoulders slump. “What about you?”

“Mm?”

“Don’t you ever sleep?”

Something flickered in Sherlock’s eyes, something dark and uncertain that made John think about the hound for the split second he saw it. He blinked and it was gone.

“Not if I can help it,” Sherlock said in his usual slightly bored tone.

John frowned, doubtful of his own eyes.

“Right,” he said. “Right. Of course. You’re obviously above such things.” He paused for a moment and sighed. “Go to sleep, Sherlock.”

When he glanced over his shoulder, Sherlock looked out the window, lost in thought.

 

***

He was running through the woods, hot puffs of breath on his neck, the cracking of the branches under enormous paws getting closer and closer. Sharp teeth grazed his shoulder. John leaped forward, desperately. It was all in vain, he was going to die alone in this godforsaken place.

Except, the sudden shriek of violin strings woke him up from the nightmare and left him panting in the bed. His shoulder ached and his heart beat fast. Downstairs, Sherlock started playing an unknown melody that was hauntingly beautiful and loud enough to fill John’s head and chase away the hound.

When John fell asleep, Sherlock  was still playing.

 

***

John felt a lot better the next day. He came downstairs to find Sherlock actually asleep on the sofa. He fetched him a blanket and sat in his own armchair, ready to describe the case they just solved on his blog.

The problem was, someone changed John’s password. Again.

He looked at the sleeping figure on the sofa and sighed. It was such a rare sight that John felt bad about waking him, even if the mad bastard deserved it. He wrote some potential titles for the blog entry in his notebook and went out to buy them food.

When he came back home from the supermarket, Sherlock was already awake and hunched over John’s laptop.

“I see you’ve changed your password again,” Sherlock said. John glared at him. “It was surprisingly good this time, for a common mind like yours. Still, not good enough.”

John went to put away the shopping and very pointedly made only one cup of tea.

 

***

There was a new message in John’s inbox and it was from Sherlock.

Sherlock never sent him emails. John frowned at the screen and let the pointer hover above the message for a second.

Then he clicked at it and frowned even more.

“Whatever you do, don’t tell John.”

 

***

John was in a house of mirrors. He didn’t know why or how did he get there. He only knew that Sherlock was looking at him from all the mirrors, his features contorted into grotesque shapes. Sherlock — all the Sherlocks — put the finger on his lips and winked. Then all the mirrors shattered, taking Sherlock away from John again, ignoring John’s desperate cries...

He woke with a start, uncomfortably contorted in his armchair, and groaned. He could already feel his body protesting on his way to the bathroom. He tripped and picked up a lonely notebook left haphazardly on the threshold. Then he sent in flying across the room. There was “Reichenbach” neatly handwritten on the cover.

 

***

“What aren’t you telling me, Sherlock?” John asked just before leaving to catch the late train to Nottingham.

Sherlock just stared at him blankly.

 

***

The two days in Nottingham were exhausting. After a veritable flu marathon, John wanted only to get home as quickly as possible and then collapse into bed. Regain some energy to maybe reconsider his life choices. He had some decent savings — thanks to the joined efforts of the Holmes brothers — and he could, theoretically, stop taking the jobs as the relief doctor. But it was like promising yourself not too touch alcohol ever again only to quickly forget why you did it in a first place.

John massaged his overworked shoulder and fished the keys out of his pocket.

He didn’t manage to open the door though.

The key worked just fine and yet the door wouldn’t budge, blocked by something heavy.

“Sherlock!” John called, a little more than annoyed. “Did you barricade the door?”

There was no answer for a very long time, no matter how many times John called. His irritation melted into something much more resembling worry.

He left the bag at the stairs and after a final (failed) attempt at pushing the door, he ran around the building and climbed the fire escape stairs up to the roof. Then he sneaked into the flat with a practiced ease. He did that more times than he’d care to admit.

When he slipped into the living room, at first he thought it was deserted. The furniture was haphazardly shoved in random places and small objects created more chaos on the floor than they usually did. Then John looked at the sofa blocking the door and froze.

There was a figure curled on it. A very pale, bloody figure.

“Sh— Sherlock!” John called, trying not to panic. He took a deep breath and only then could he move, and he moved all at once, his only purpose to save Sherlock.

John took Sherlock’s pulse and the overwhelming relief at finding his heart beating strong and steady nearly caused John to collapse.

Then he noticed the bandages. They were sloppily wrapped around Sherlock’s hands, covered in blood but thankfully not sipping through. John gritted his teeth and woke Sherlock up with maybe more force than was necessary.

“John?” came a weak rasp and Sherlock blinked at him, his eyes still out of focus.

“I can’t leave you alone for two bloody days, can I?” John said. Now that the panic subsided, he started to feel angry again. Angry and exhausted.

Sherlock frowned at him in confusion and sat up. He then scanned the room and his frown only deepened.

“I didn’t do it,” he said petulantly.

“Right. Mrs Hudson came here when you were asleep. She thought the sofa looked better against the door.” He took a deep breath. “Why did you barricade the door, Sherlock?”

“I didn’t,” he insisted. John saw the already familiar brief flicker of terror in Sherlock’s eyes.

“You know it’s not very convincing?” Sherlock shrugged and refused to look at him. John sighed and went to the kitchen to fetch the first aid kit. “What about your—” he said and stared at the sink, “—hands?”

“What are you talking about?” he heard the usual annoyed undertone in Sherlock’s voice, which would actually be a good sign. But then came the breathed, “oh.”

John still stood paralyzed in front of the sink when Sherlock came into the kitchen, his hands outstretched like something foreign, fear openly present in his eyes.

“John,” Sherlock said weakly. “John, I didn’t do it.”

“Then who did, Sherlock, because there’s a knife sank in a pool of blood in the fucking sink and no one else is in the flat.”

“I— there’s not enough data,” Sherlock said.

“You mean you don’t know?” Sherlock looked uneasy and John would find it hilarious if it wasn’t so bloody terrifying. “How can you not know?” Sherlock pursed his lips and looked at the floor. John sighed. “Come on, let me see your hands,” he said.

 

***

Sherlock’s hands thankfully didn’t need stitches and John promised to bandage them after Sherlock would finish taking a shower. Meanwhile, John occupied himself with cleaning up the room, which allowed him to keep his thoughts away from things he was too exhausted to deal with.

He was going through the poison notebooks when he spotted one that he’d never seen before. It had a plain black cover without any labels on it, which was unusual. John frowned and opened it. He looked on the first page and gasped.

“Really, John, I think you’re overreacting,” Sherlock said, re-entering the room. “My hands are _fine_.”

“They’re far from fine,” John said automatically and blinked at the notebook. “I— What—“ He took a deep breath. “I didn’t know you drew.”

Sherlock frowned.

“I don’t,” he said, looking at the notebook in John’s hands with something akin to trepidation.

“Well, apparently you _do_ , unless our flat spirits decided to draw dozens of pictures of me and signed them with your handwriting. Or are you a Faerie too?”

“You are on those drawings?” Sherlock asked. Something in his voice made John hesitate.

“Yes?” he said and handed Sherlock the notebook.

Sherlock opened it in the middle, stared at the drawing of John sleeping in his armchair and without another word stormed into his bedroom, slamming the door behind him.

 

***

“And I don’t know if they’re even real anymore, you know?” John said and took a sip of his beer. “They disappear as soon as I’ve read them, sometimes even before that.”

“Phantom emails?” Greg snorted into his beer. John glared at him. “Sorry, mate. But you know it’s most likely Sherlock’s doing, right?”

“Yeah,” John sighed. “It wouldn’t be the first time he’s broken into my account. I just don’t understand why would he write those emails if he just deletes them, you know? And there’s nothing really in there.”

“Maybe they’re in code?” Greg suggested. John looked at him sceptically. “What? I wouldn’t put it past him.”

“And what’s so bloody encoded in ‘John, fetch me a pen’?” Greg just shrugged. “No, the emails are harmless. It’s his behaviour that worries me.”

“I bet it does,” Greg said, earning himself another glare.

“He’s been awfully quiet lately,” John said. “Not... sulky quiet — tense quiet, like he’s afraid of something.”

“Afraid?”

“Yeah, I know. But you don’t barricade the door because you think it would be more fun to go out the window.”

“He _would_ though,” Greg said and this time, it made John snort. “Don’t worry so much, it’s not the first time he’s acting strange.”

“I know, but—“

“And that young lady at the bar seems to think you’re cute so better lose the sour face.”

John frowned at Greg and then looked in the direction of the bar. There was in fact an attractive young woman eyeing him not very subtly. She smiled when she saw him looking.

“Well,” Greg said. “Aren’t you going to do anything?”

“You know, I think I might. Cheers.” He stood up with his beer. “Just find him a case, would you?” he said and went to sit beside the young lady.

 

***

Slightly drunk, charmed by Susan’s smile and in possession of her phone number, John came back home with a silly grin plastered to his face. There was light in the living room, but that was nothing unusual. Neither was the fact that Sherlock was pacing in front of the wall, pictures and notes pinned to it at random.

What was less usual is that Sherlock was completely naked.

John blinked sheepishly at him, ignoring Sherlock’s incomprehensible mumbling. Then he decided that he didn’t want to deal with a naked frantic Sherlock right this moment and went to bed.

 

***

John had to admit that Greg was quick. Or maybe Sherlock was just a magnet for serial killers. Whatever the reason, a case popped up the very next day and John followed Sherlock on a mad chase like he always did. It was full of red herrings, traps and killers too clever for anyone’s good. After three days, they were still very far from catching the murderer.

“Here, drink this,” John said and handed Sherlock a cup of tea. Sherlock eyed it disdainfully but John knew he’d drink it if presented with it directly. He’d been pacing and cross-checking facts for the last four hours. He needed to eat and to sleep but there was no way John could make him do that, so he did what he could.

Sure enough, after a moment, Sherlock drank nearly half of his tea in one go. John winced at the state his throat must be in, attacked like that by the scalding liquid, but he didn’t say anything. He sat on the sofa and pretended to read.

Another ten minutes passed and Sherlock staggered on his feet.

“What— what have you given me?” He sounded panicked.

“It’s okay, Sherlock,” John said and caught him before he could fall. “It’s just a couple of sleeping pills.”

“No!” Sherlock protested weakly, tripping over the threshold of his bedroom, practically carried there by John.

“You have to sleep to properly function, whether you like it or not. You wore yourself thin with this case.”

“It’s not finished,” Sherlock mumbled, all the fight leaving him when John put him to bed. He only looked at John with a betrayed expression.

“Then you’ll finish it when you get some sleep,” John said firmly.

“But... I must... protect you,” Sherlock said right before his body finally gave out and he fell asleep.

“Well, that sounded cheerful,” John muttered and sighed.

He double-checked all the locks. Just in case.

 

***

A banging on the door woke John up entirely too early. He groaned and turned on the other side, wishing the person on the door to go away.

But then the doorbell rang. Repeatedly.

John cursed the intruder for disturbing them just when he managed to get Sherlock to sleep some normal hours. He grudgingly went down to open the bloody door, not bothering to put on more than a worn tee.

“Yes, I’m going!” he called, really annoyed by now.

“John?” there was a weak, disoriented call from the approximate direction of Sherlock’s bedroom that made John curse. “Is that a client?” that already sounded more alert and animated. The door to Sherlock’s room opened.

John sighed.

“If it is, I’m going to bloody _murder_ them.”

“I hope that you can be more imaginative and not leave trails of blood behind you. It’s so vulgar.”

John glared at him, because ‘blood patterns are important, John’ and opened the door.

“Susan?” He just stood there blinking for a moment, frozen in surprise.

“Ah, dull,” Sherlock said and threw himself on the sofa, which seemed to be John’s cue to move and finally let Susan in.

She looked terrible. Her hair was messily pulled back, her eyes bloodshot and scared, and her voice shook when she spoke.

“John, we need to... I-I can’t... I don’t— don’t want to...”

“You have been threatened?” Sherlock said, suddenly interested again.

John shot him a glare but Susan looked down at her feet and nodded.

“What?” John asked, looking from Sherlock to Susan and back. Before either of them could say anything, Mrs Hudson appeared in the flat.

“Honestly, boys,” she said. “I don’t mind a bit of a noise but—“ She stopped talking when she spotted Susan. “Oh, hello, dear, are you here with a case?”

“N-not exactly,” Susan said and looked at John with a lost expression.

“John, please take care of your guest. I’ll make us all tea,” Mrs Hudson said and disappeared into the kitchen.

Sherlock was unusually quiet when John helped Susan sit in his armchair. When John looked at him, he rolled his eyes, but not before John could see that lost, scared expression again. Something was very much not okay.

“Alright,” John finally said, sitting in Sherlock’s armchair. “Do you think you can tell us about it?”

Susan gritted her teeth and nodded.

“He... I went out last night and when I... when I came back, he... he was waiting. In front of my flat. I-I didn’t... see him. But. He... he whispered, grabbed me and whispered, that I-I should s-stay away from J-John Watson or b-bad things will h-happen to me.”

She clearly wasn’t going to say more, so John prompted, “could you describe his voice?”

“N-no?” she choked. “I mean, he... he whispered. Very quietly. I—“

A loud bang accompanied Sherlock’s abrupt disappearance into his bedroom. John stared after him blankly, too confused to properly react.

“I can’t... s-sorry, John, b-but...” She took a deep breath. “We won’t see each other anymore.”

John sighed.

“Yeah, I thought you might say that.”

When Mrs Hudson appeared in the living room with tea and biscuits, John was already alone.

 

***

He gave himself a determined nod and knocked on Sherlock’s door. There was no answer so he tried to open it, but it was locked.

“Sherlock, let me in,” he said.

“No.”

“We have to talk about this.”

“I’m not going to discuss your love life with you, John. I have a case, remember?”

John took a deep breath.

“Alright, genius. But what about the threats?”

Stubborn silence greeted him.

“What aren’t you telling me, Sherlock?”

More silence followed.

 

***

However tired John felt, he couldn’t fall asleep. There was too much on his mind to properly disconnect and rest.

When he heard a terrified scream coming from downstairs, he was almost glad he didn’t.

John jumped out of bed and grabbed the gun he found under his pillow this time. Then he ran down the stairs and forced the door to Sherlock’s bedroom open. He looked for potential threats but saw none. Only then did he risk properly looking at Sherlock.

He was sitting upright on the bed, eyes wide with terror, breathing rapid and ragged. John approached him cautiously, not sure how aware he was of his surroundings. The bed creaked softly under John’s weight.

“Sherlock,” he started gently, avoiding any physical contact that might trigger him. “Are you—“

He didn’t get the chance to finish because Sherlock leaned down and kissed him. John’s brain went offline for a second and he drowned in conflicting sensations, with a silly “oh” trapped in his throat.

The kiss was over before John really had a chance to react. Sherlock let go of him and lay down with a couple of words that John in his shocked state didn’t quite get. Sherlock was asleep in a moment though, so John stood up dazedly and went back upstairs, still clutching his gun. Only when he was in his bed, John touched his lips, still tingling with the memory of Sherlock’s kiss.

Sherlock _kissed_ him.

John fell asleep with a silly grin on his face.

 

***

They didn’t talk about the kiss. Sherlock acted as if nothing had happened at all and kept sending John questioning glances whenever he caught him looking.

John tried not to feel disappointed. After all, he didn’t know he wanted it until it happened, so it couldn’t be that big of a deal.

It really wasn’t.

 

***

John opened his eyes, convinced that something woke him up. He frowned when he noticed an intense conversation in the living room. He looked at his phone. It was half three in the morning. Slightly alarmed but mostly curious, he grabbed his gun and went silently downstairs. He stopped at the bottom of the stairs.

"—know I can't do that, Mycroft," Sherlock scoffed but somehow it lacked the usual scorn. Which was actually alarming. John was about to storm in there, when Mycroft's words stopped him in place.

"You have to tell John. He'll find out sooner or later."

"Not if I take care of this."

"You haven't yet, have you?" They grew silent. John could just picture the glaring contest. Then came a sigh from Mycroft. "He's already suspicious, Sherlock. You can't keep this up forever."

"I won't," came Sherlock's firm answer. More silence followed and then Sherlock said, "just keep your cameras in the flat."

There was a shuffle and a sound of footsteps but before Mycroft got out, he said, "this is a dangerous game you're playing, Sherlock. Don't let the good doctor get hurt."

The door clicked shut. John waited for a moment before heading back to his room.

 

***

“John?” Molly Hooper looked at him with a frown. He must have been a sight, hovering right outside St Bart’s mortuary. “I didn’t know Sherlock’s investigating,” she said, wiping her hands in her lab coat.

“No, he’s… he’s home.” John cleared his throat. “Actually, I was rather hoping I could… buy you coffee.” Molly’s expression seemed to change between confusion and timid amusement. “We could… talk?” John finished lamely and Molly finally decided to opt for a smile.

“Yeah, alright,” she said. “Just let me get changed and I’ll be back with you, okay?”

Molly went to the locker room, leaving John alone with a premonition of imminent danger he couldn’t shake off.

“Where are we going?” Molly asked when she reappeared dressed in her normal clothes.

“Um… I haven’t really thought about it,” John admitted. “It’s late, isn’t it?”

“That’s alright,” Molly said, sounding cheerful, though John thought she looked slightly alarmed. “We can go to the hospital cafeteria. They have terrible coffee but at least it’s open.”

“Yeah, sorry about the hour,” John said.

“Don’t worry about it,” Molly said and waved a dismissive hand that nearly hit him in the nose. “Oh, sorry!” she squeaked. “Um… let’s just go.”

John nodded and followed her to the cafeteria. They sat in a quiet corner that gave them a bit of privacy and sipped coffee in silence.

“Okay,” Molly finally said. “What has he done now?”

John let out a scornful snort.

“He’s not telling me something. Something important. And potentially dangerous.” He looked Molly in the eye. “You don’t happen to know what that might be, do you?”

Molly smiled sadly and shook her head.

“No. Sorry, John. I’ve hardly seen him lately. Is there something wrong?” she asked, concerned.

“I don’t know,” John said and told her about everything.

 

***

Talking to Molly helped. John felt rather silly bothering the poor girl like that about things that were probably just a new manifestation of Sherlock’s contrary character.

Unless until he came home at two in the morning to find the flat deserted with furniture once again in total disarray. John’s armchair had been blocking the door, only this time it was clear that someone managed to move it.

John tried not to panic and dialled Sherlock’s number. Sherlock preferred texting but he always picked up when John was calling him. Or let him know he couldn’t talk.

Not this time though. Wherever Sherlock went — willingly or not — he left his phone on his nightstand.

John clenched his jaw and called Mycroft immediately.

 

***

Sherlock came home in the morning, when John just got off the phone with Greg, insisting that standard missing persons procedures didn’t apply to Sherlock. If _Mycroft_ hadn’t been able to find him, they certainly had reason to worry.

The worry didn’t vanish or even transform into something else when John took in the state Sherlock was in. He looked shaken, he _visibly_ trembled, whether from the cold or something else, John couldn’t tell. His clothes were dirty, even his precious coat bore signs of mud and something slick. Sherlock’s hair hung miserably over his eyes, and though he looked everywhere but at John, it was clear his pupils were blown wide.

“I fell into the Thames,” Sherlock rasped and staggered on his feet. John had just enough time to catch him before he fell. Sherlock groaned.

“How?” John asked, as stoically as he could manage. Sherlock didn’t say anything and then he suddenly looked sick. He ran into the bathroom and started vomiting.

John really hoped it wasn’t because of the drugs.

 

***

It wasn’t.

 

***

John didn’t manage to get much out of Sherlock. Between the retching, the shaking and the general haze, his body needed to give out to its needs sooner or later. Sherlock apparently had other plans though, fighting with exhaustion, stubbornly refusing to sleep. John started to debate the use of sleeping pills again when Sherlock finally fell asleep on the sofa some time before midnight. John fetched him a blanket and went to sleep as well, barricading the door first, just in case.

It didn’t do him much good though. Strange noises woke him up not even two hours later and his thought process narrowed down to two thoughts: _Sherlock_ and _protect_.

John looked under the pillow for the gun but didn’t find it there. He gritted his teeth and grabbed the first slightly useful thing he could find (which happened to be a bottle of wine) and ran down to meet the threat.

But it was Sherlock who tried to move the armchair from the door, and his efforts weren’t very effective. John frowned, confused, and put the bottle down.

“Sherlock?” he asked gently. “What are you doing? Because if you experiment on my armchair, I swear—“

Sherlock made a sudden move to face him and John flinched involuntarily. Then he noticed the gun in Sherlock’s hand.

“What have I told you about my—“

“Stay back!” Sherlock said, his voice dripping with threat.

“What are you—” John made a move towards Sherlock but froze when Sherlock levelled the gun steadily at his forehead.

“I said, stay back!” Sherlock all but growled.

John raised his hands in sign of defeat and took a step back, his mind desperately trying to deduce what was going on.

“Sherlock, put the gun down,” he said with a steady voice and tried not to flinch when Sherlock’s finger shook on the trigger.

“Oh, you think you’re so clever, don’t you?” Sherlock sneered, his eyes wide open. “Sneaking up on us, making threats.”

“No one’s threatening you.”

“Where’s John?” Sherlock yelled. John blinked at him in surprise.

“What—“

“Where have you taken him?”

John frowned and looked at Sherlock more closely. Then it hit him. Sherlock didn’t see him, he probably didn’t even hear him.

“Oh, my God! You’re still asleep.”

“Where. Is. John?!” Sherlock bellowed. John felt suddenly glad that the door was barricaded. Mrs Hudson was probably awake by now and on her way upstairs. If they carried on with this insanely surreal conversation, she might get in anyway and it wasn’t safe at the moment.

“I’m right here,” he tried to reason with his friend. “I’m right in front of you.”

But it was clear that Sherlock didn’t recognize him. His finger tightened on the trigger and John swallowed. He didn’t fancy being shot again. But Sherlock wasn’t going to listen to reason, so John needed a plan.

“Sherlock,” he said gently, as if dealing with a wild animal. “It’s me. You’re sleepwalking.”

John very carefully stepped towards the kitchen.

“Don’t move!” Sherlock called after him but John ducked under the table before the sound of a gunshot reverberated in the room. Apparently though, it wasn’t enough to wake Sherlock up.

“You can’t hide from me!” Sherlock yelled and he sounded practically insane.

“Shit!” John had just enough time to get out from under the table before the second bullet cut through the air and hit the spot he’d been in just a moment ago. “Maybe it’s time to use your bloody fucking cameras, Mycroft Holmes?” he murmured and dived behind the sofa right before the third shot rang out.

“What have you done with him?” Sherlock insisted. “Tell me!”

His voice came closer to the sofa and John tensed in anticipation. He had been a soldier. He had been trained to deal with enemy fire. Though he was quite sure the training didn’t cover your best friend trying to kill you with your own gun while sleepwalking.

The sofa protested weakly when Sherlock kneeled on it and John tried to think beyond the adrenaline buzz in his veins. When Sherlock’s head appeared over the edge of the chair, followed by the gun, John spun into action.

He kicked the gun out of Sherlock’s reach. It didn’t shoot anybody on its way down. Thankfully. Sherlock rushed to take a hold of it again but John was ready. He grabbed Sherlock and pinned him to the floor.

“I’m sorry, Sherlock, but being shot hurts like hell,” he said and held Sherlock’s trashing limbs with effort until they stopped moving and Sherlock’s eyes gained more focus.

“John?” he said in a small voice.

“So you know who I am now?”

“Of course I know, John,” Sherlock sneered but it was still weak and hesitant.

“Good.”

John helped Sherlock to the sofa where he just sat looking lost and disoriented. Then John silently picked up the gun and went to move the armchair away from the door so that the person frantically knocking on it for some time now could stop doing that. It made John’s head ache.

He glanced shortly at Mrs Hudson and narrowed his eyes at Mycroft.

“What good are you if you can’t even save your brother from killing his best friend?” John hissed.

Mycroft at least had the decency to look slightly chagrined.

“Where is he?” he asked.

“Tell me, Mycroft, how much do you pay your people to watch our lives like a fucking freak show if they can’t even come and help when they’re needed. I bet they’re laughing their lazy arses out.”

“It’s taken care of,” Mycroft said. He looked like he just ate a lemon.

“Oh, good,” John scoffed. “I’ll feel so much safer when Sherlock next decides to kill me.”

Now Mycroft just looked at him as if John was acting childishly, which just made John want to prove him right and shut the door in his face.

“So sorry for the noise, Mrs Hudson,” he said, still looking at Mycroft. “I’ll make sure we stay quiet for the rest of the night.

Then John finally closed the door and came to sit next to Sherlock on the sofa. Sherlock looked fragile, vulnerable, like he never really allowed himself to look. They sat in silence for a long while.

“Maybe you should get some slee—“

“No,” Sherlock protested. He looked scared again. Terrified.

“It’s unlikely to have more than one—“

“I could have killed you,” Sherlock whispered.

John clenched his jaw.

“You didn’t,” he said. _Even if it was pretty damn close_.

“Nearly did,” Sherlock looked around at the disarray of the flat and hid his face in his hands. “I can’t go to sleep,” he said quietly.

“I’d watch over you.”

“No!” The little panicky note was back in Sherlock’s voice.

“Alright,” John said. “Fine. Fair enough.” He rubbed his hands together. “Let’s... let’s just talk.”

He fully expected Sherlock to ignore him so he was surprised to hear him begin explaining.

“I sleepwalked when I was a child,” Sherlock said. “I could never remember a thing but the staff always laughed about the things I would do. I hated it.”

“The staff?”

Sherlock rolled his eyes and John nearly cried with relief at this familiar gesture.

“Not really the focus of the story,” Sherlock said. “I used to record these episodes for... scientific purposes but it was all dull things, mainly just walking around the house. I grew out of it when I was sixteen—“

“But—“

“—or so I thought. I don’t know why it started again,” he admitted grudgingly.

John nodded.

“When did it start again?” he asked.

“Right after I returned. I still don’t remember what happens during the episode, but I can deduce that I had one fairly easily.”

“But sleepwalking isn’t supposed to be dangerous,” John protested. “Is it?”

“It’s worse for adults,” Sherlock said and cleared his throat. “There was this case before we met, when a man killed his wife and it was blatantly obvious it was him. And yet he seemed so genuinely confused about the whole thing that I checked if he wasn’t being framed. But it _was_ him. He just didn’t remember it.”

“You mean—“

“He was sleepwalking. He had no motive, no hidden agenda. He just killed his wife because she happened to be in his way.”

“Christ.”

“And it’s not the only case like this.”

They were silent for a while, both of them immersed in their own thoughts.

“So does it— Is it only limited to killing people?” John asked eventually.

“What?”

“The sleepwalking.” A lot of things that happened over the last few weeks would make much more sense. “Can you do other things too?”

Sherlock was silent for a moment and then, very quietly, he said, “yes.”

“You barricaded the door.”

“Yes.” Sherlock sighed. “But not while sleeping. I noticed I had a tendency to leave the flat even with the doors locked, so whenever you were out and I needed to sleep...”

“You built yourself a fortress,” John said. “And you lied to me about it.”

Sherlock grimaced but then he just looked annoyed.

“It worked perfectly well,” he said. “Until I went and walked into the Thames.”

“You—“ John looked at him with astonishment. “You were sleepwalking then? I thought someone took you. Even Mycroft couldn’t find you!”

“Yes,” Sherlock said, a small smirk creeping on his lips. John shot him a glare. It didn’t work. “Apparently my sleeping self is quite clever as well.”

John couldn’t help but snort at that. Sherlock went all quiet again and looked slightly defeated.

“John... I-I think I might have been the one who threatened Sally.”

“Susan,” John corrected automatically.

Sherlock rolled his eyes but then he grew serious again.

“I don’t know how I did it,” he said. “People don’t recognize faces when they’re sleepwalking, you know.”

“Kinda noticed,” John murmured. Sherlock just shrugged and let his shoulders sag. John sighed. “Look, you were not yourself. And Susan’s fine.”

Sherlock huffed but said nothing.

There was one more thing that John would like to know, rather desperately.

“Can these... episodes be real?” he asked. “I mean... can you mean what you do?”

“If you ask if a sleepwalking person could _mean_ to kill the monster blocking their way, that only happens to be someone they know, then—“

“No, not like that. I mean— forget it.”

“John.”

“Leave it, Sherlock.”

“What did I do?”

“It’s not important.”

The memories of the kiss, brief as it was, came unbidden to him and he just knew that he wouldn’t be able to keep them hidden from Sherlock’s scrutinizing gaze.

“Ah,” Sherlock said as if on cue, his voice surprisingly soft. He was probably about to tell John to stop being such an idiot. “I see my sleepwalking self is quite clever indeed.”

“Sherlock?” John said hesitantly when Sherlock’s fingers caressed his cheeks.

“Do you want me to mean it?” Sherlock asked.

John looked into his questioning eyes. There wasn’t any doubt as to his answer.

“Yes,” he said.

Sherlock smiled brilliantly and kissed him.

“I should have told you,” he said when they parted.

“Yes, you should have,” John said. “But I’m not quite as mad at you as I should be. I’m quite cross with Mycroft though. Can we make him watch over you while you sleepwalk? Should serve him right to be shot at for once.”

“Mycroft has already faced eighteen direct threats to his life and yet, he’s still amongst us,” Sherlock said, as if it displeased him.

“Yes, but you said it yourself, didn’t you? Your sleepwalking self is quite clever. I’m sure you could outwit him.”

Sherlock sent him a blinding smile that John kissed right out of his face.

    

**Author's Note:**

> I didn't want to give too much away in tags but if you think I should add something, let me know. It's not my intention to trigger people.  
> My cousins sleepwalk. It's quite harmless in children but can be terryfying nonetheless. I woke up one night to see my cousin just standing by my bed when I spent my holidays there. She went to sleep as soon as I told her to, but...  
> It's not so great from the other side as well. She's constantly afraid that she'll walk out of the house and won't come back. I thought this loss of control over one's actions would terrify Sherlock. (And yet I still seem unable to hurt my characters too much.)  
> The Reichenbach referenced in this story is a German parapsychologist [Baron Karl Ludwig von Reichenbach](http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Baron_Karl_Ludwig_von_Reichenbach) who studied sleepwalkers in 19th century. It was too good to leave out completely. And I think Sherlock would do his research thoroughly.  
> The title's borrowed from the song [The Devil Within](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=rWcJ8QcyHhQ) by Digital Daggers that I listened to too many times while trying to get into the right mood for this story.


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